


This Isn't Your Typical Romance

by vulpineTrickster



Series: A Knight and His Geek [9]
Category: Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpineTrickster/pseuds/vulpineTrickster
Summary: This was originally a oneshot but my muse convinced me to switch it to a multi-chapter. Oh boy, this is gonna be a challenge. Any multi-chapter fics I start tend to go unfinished after a while. BUT! It's time to pull up my big-girl panties and see this through!HERE WE GO!!!!!!!! :DDDD(save me, neechan, fox is overwhelmed ;w;)Disclaimer: Pokémon, its characters, and its franchise belong to Satoshi Tajiri and Nintendo.DO NOT COPY OR DUPLICATE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!!!!





	This Isn't Your Typical Romance

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a oneshot but my muse convinced me to switch it to a multi-chapter. Oh boy, this is gonna be a challenge. Any multi-chapter fics I start tend to go unfinished after a while. BUT! It's time to pull up my big-girl panties and see this through!
> 
> HERE WE GO!!!!!!!! :DDDD
> 
>  ~~(save me, neechan, fox is overwhelmed ;w;)~~
> 
> Disclaimer: Pokémon, its characters, and its franchise belong to Satoshi Tajiri and Nintendo.
> 
> **_DO NOT COPY OR DUPLICATE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!!!!_ **
> 
> * * *

The sun will rise soon.

Wikstrom trudges up the paved path to his century-old manor with a pleased smile and a full stomach. He can’t remember the last time he indulged like that. Last night was Malva’s birthday and she pulled out all of the stops: dinner at Le Wow, dancing at Lumiose’s current hottest nightclub, and a drink or twenty at their favorite bar. Sycamore and Grant stopped at three (they tried going for a fourth but the poor lightweights conked out after the first gulp) with Malva and Diantha knocking back shot after shot until last call. Being the gentleman that he is (and the only one who can walk a straight line), Wikstrom dutifully escorted his friends to their respective abodes before making the long trek back to his secluded, woodland estate.

Wikstrom lets out a loud, jaw-cracking yawn. The events of last night are slowly catching up to him and he knows he’s cutting it close with sunrise twenty minutes away. He cannot wait to curl up in his comfortable bed for a well-deserved rest and—oh.

He pauses at the porch steps and discovers an unusual sight: a young man, unconscious and naked, sprawled face-down on the welcome mat.

Wikstrom mentally chides the poor soul, figuring him to be a townie that had too much to drink and decided to take a spontaneous trip through the woods sans clothing.

Kneeling beside the man, he scents the air. There is a slight presence of blood but that can be attributed to the several shallow cuts adorning the bottoms of the man’s dirt-caked feet, most likely the result of walking barefoot on rocks and broken twigs. The pungent stench of alcohol is absent, dashing Wikstrom’s previous assumption; perhaps drugs were involved instead, those are harder to detect.

Whatever his _guest’s_ deal is, he takes pity on him. Wikstrom unlocks the door first and then shrugs off his pea-coat, draping the garment over the man. As he picks up the unconscious body, the brunet is surprised how heavy the man is despite his slim form.

Wikstrom enters his home, kicking the door closed once inside, and heads for the living room. Proper etiquette requires him to bring his guest to a spare bedroom but with sunrise quickly approaching, Wikstrom decides against it.

Once his guest is comfortably propped on the couch pillows, Wikstrom takes a minute to inspect the unconscious man. His sharp facial features perceive someone of high intelligence. His skin is pale but it’s not a sickly pallor, suggesting he spends most of his time indoors. He is sporting one of those ridiculous undercuts with a lone turquoise-dyed streak among the shaggy black strands. His ears have tiny pinpricks where earrings would normally be found; Wikstrom doesn’t recall seeing said jewelry on the porch. The man is warm, too warm after spending the night outside in the cold. Wikstrom’s coat does nothing to protect whatever nonexistent modesty his guest has left. Long, gangly legs awkwardly stick out from under the black wool and between those legs…well, Wikstrom is not ashamed to say he spent a few moments admiring _that_.

 _He is indeed a handsome creature_ , Wikstrom ponders, _I wonder what his eyes are like…_

Distracted, he misses a stream of sunlight peeking through a gap between the curtains and spreading its warmth across the couch. Wikstrom recoils back with a soft hiss. Gingerly, he removes his coat and replaces it with a patchwork quilt Diantha gifted him decades ago. The nameless man does not rouse from the change but his eyebrows furrow in his sleep.

A stray chuckle passes Wikstrom’s lips. He silently bids his impromptu guest goodnight and vanishes from the room in a blink.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Fucking hell…_

The first thing Cassius registers is the conga line of a monster headache wrecking havoc on whatever brain-cells are still functioning after last night; Valerie warned him about the morning after and he brushed her off with a disinterested ‘yeah yeah’ to cover up his nervousness.

Second is _oh thank fuck, there’s coffee_ when he catches a whiff of his liquidly lifeline.

Third, _where the fuck am I?_

This is not his apartment. It’s not packed with old take-out containers and strewn clothing, there’s a musty smell, and it’s filled with old junk Antiques Roadshow would salivate over, include the intricate quilt he is wrapped in.

_Am I at Drasna’s?_

Everything aches as Cassius manages to sit up. He reaches down to grab his cell-phone and instead of feeling the rough denim of his jeans, he feels smooth skin, _his_ skin.

Cassius barks out a strangled yelp and falls off the couch in his surprise. He lands on the carpeted floor with a loud and painful thud. The quilt tangles around his legs. Cassius takes a slight whiff and freezes. His friends are not here.

“Oh fuck,” he grits, “this ain’t good.”

He is naked…in a stranger’s house…and all alone. ‘Not good’ is putting it mildly. This is a damn disaster!

Attempting to recall the events of last night only worsens Cassius’ headache and he’ll need all cylinders firing to get out of this mess without getting his ass handed to him. Cassius grabs the discarded quilt and quickly fashions a makeshift toga ( _thank you, Valerie_ ) to cover his nakedness for the time being. He staggers to his feet and hobbles toward a vast foyer ( _what the hell?!_ ), making a beeline for, what is hopefully, the front door. His fingers barely touch the doorknob when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, alerting him to danger. His instincts scream at him to **_run, run, run!_**

“You are awake,” a husky baritone voice says behind him, “that’s good.”

Cassius startles and bites back a curse. What. The. Fuck. How did he not hear the owner coming? Did last night impair him that much?

(Cassius vows to always abide by Valerie’s warnings in the future.)

“You know, it is rude not to say goodbye _and_ not offer an explanation as to why I discovered you nude and passed out on my front porch,” the voice continues in a haughty tone.

Cassius keeps his back to the owner, not a wise thing to do in this situation. “I’m sorry but I can’t give an answer for the why.”

“Cannot…or will not?”

 _Fuck._ “Look, bub, I ain’t feeling well and I’d really like to get home. I’d be happy to pay for whatever damage I caused. And I apologize for trespassing, yo.”

The owner deeply sighs. “There was no damage but I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave in such a state. The quilt you wear was given to me by a dear friend and she will be remised to find it gone.”

(Cassius’ instincts are quieting down, the hell?)

“I may have something more suitable for you. I have set out coffee and biscuits in the living room. Please help yourself whilst I search.”

Cassius waits until the owner leaves, _silently_ (is he like a ninja or something?), before shuffling back to the living room. A silver tray laden with two porcelain mugs of steaming coffee and a polished plate of jelly-filled cookies beckon him over. He plops on the couch and immediately sinks into the plush cushions.

“Damn, it’s just like my granny’s couch,” he grumbles.

He knows he should just cut and run but there was something about the owner’s voice. It soothed him and somehow calmed his instincts the more they talked. It felt odd. He thought only Drasna could do that.

A low grumble from his stomach diverts his attention to more pressing matters: nourishment; and if Cassius doesn’t get some coffee in him soon, he might explode. It takes a few tries for him to settle comfortably on the cushions without them swallowing him. He picks up a mug and greedily gulps down the bitter liquid, not waiting for it to cool. It instantly warms him up.

“Ahh, that hit the spot, yo.”

Cassius snatches up two cookies and shoves them in his mouth. Stray crumbs messily dust the quilt-toga. He takes a few more because they are so damn delicious!

 _Oh my god, these are better than Siebold’s!_ Cassius chuckles. _Ehh, better keep that to myself, yo._

“I found some clothes that may fit you.” The owner calls out, his voice getting closer to the living room. “I was planning on donating them but they are clean and if you want, you may…keep…them…”

Cassius is munching on his sixth cookie when he looks up, wondering why they trailed off like that, and then promptly chokes on said pastry when he locks eyes with the mystery owner.

Standing in threshold is a tall and board (and insanely handsome) tan-skinned man with blue eyes and brown hair. His muscled arms go limp, sending the clothes he gathered tumbling to the floor. His rugged face is poised in a mix of surprise and shock. His mouth is agape. Two sharp incisors peek out behind his bottom lip.

Cassius manages to dislodge and hastily swallow the cookie. He flails to his feet, keeping his attention on the man. Now he gets it, gets why his instincts were going haywire earlier, and how he never heard the man come and go.

He’s in the dwelling of a vampire.

And being a new werewolf, Cassius is royally screwed.

“Well, fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://nogitsunehuntress.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
